


A Study in Self-Denial

by disastersaurus



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:27:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disastersaurus/pseuds/disastersaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson's hands; or, Sherlock Holmes attempts to analyse his new companion and remains confused.</p><p>[written quite early in the first season]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Self-Denial

He marvels at her hands, sometimes. Surgeon's fingers, strong and steady, layers of carefully trained skill and skin and muscle, sinew and bone. He might exasperate her, anger her, enough to splinter the carefully constructed professionalism; but her hands never shake, every movement precise. Hands that could save lives, that have never faltered in their skill—except once, just once—almost undetectable, but that one mistake lingers in her touch sometimes. He wonders what she was like before. Not like the young glossy crows of surgeons, arrogant in their skill, but—more trusting. In the world. In herself.

She likes to pretend she's thrown off her past medical life, and it's true she dresses more like an artist than a doctor these days, but she never paints her nails. Short nails, buffed, and neat fingers, though the skin is no longer dry from disinfectant. He wonders how many bridesmaid's manicures she's turned down over the years. He'd ask her, but he's sure of the reply. A habit, she'd say. Easier. She wears swinging jackets and dangling jewellery that have never been in a hospital, but her nails stay bare.

Two finger taps, a palm against her coat pocket when she's stressed or exhausted or angry. A medical school habit, he decides, given up when she could no longer stand the weight of irony—the present Joan Watson—morning jogs, no matter what hour she'd stayed up til the night before; disgusting vegetable smoothies; a lingering look at his steak as she puts half her dressing on her salad—no, the present Joan Watson is a study in self-denial.

Six months after they'd met. He'd finally broke down and admitted he'd needed her, at least professionally. Their friendship, something more like something natural, or at least balanced, now.

Then, a case gone horribly, horribly wrong. The killer was not the troubled soldier, but his taciturn mother, and her anger and her guilt.

Joan, with duct tape over her mouth. She doesn't cry when they rip it from her face, and he can't do more than linger next to her. She has learned to comfort, to calm; those are lessons that are more than foreign to him. An awkward pat on her shoulder. She flinches away, and he can see her then grow wide-eyed, guilt. He shakes his head at her—she is not his guardian alone any longer. Later, he puts a cup of tea next to her hand and stays quiet through her statement to the police. She looks at him—they have a silent language now, though it's been forming for a while. _Thank you._

He gives her some room when they go home to the brownstone, puttering around the kitchen and practising atonal chords on the piano. A few hours later though, he's unable to contain himself. She's out on the roof, like he expected. She doesn't seem surprised to see him. She doesn't put out her cigarette.  
"You're alright." It's not a question as much as a statement. Almost a plea.  
"Yeah," The red glow of her cigarette shakes a little, but her voice is steady. "Yeah, I think I will be."


End file.
